


Something Sweet

by electricshoebox



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Autumn, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricshoebox/pseuds/electricshoebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little glimpse of autumn in Skyhold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Autumn is my favorite season, and I just wanted to write a little something for it. Just complete fluff.

Autumn comes quickly to Skyhold. The handful of snowless weeks that pass for a summer yield easily back to crisp, frostbitten winds, and whatever green crept into the foliage flees again, the trees turning gold and brown. But with all of that come fresh shipments: crates and barrels of Hinterlands harvest, and a few boxes from further north (spices and sugar from Rivain and Antiva, a crate that smells heavily of tea leaves, probably Tevene or Nevarran). Much of it will go to the All Souls Day feast, or to heartier stews and roasts to fortify against the cold. Much, but not all.

The Bull smiles as he strolls into the Great Hall to find the breakfast platters already waiting. The inviting steam carries the smell of ham and fresh bread, and something fruity. Bull breathes deep, and his smile widens. Apple pastries. 

“There’s you, late as you please,” Sera calls, waving a forkful of potatoes at him as he drops into the seat next to her at the table. “Fussy-britches keep you up all night?”

Bull grins, reaching for the platter of ham slices. “In more ways than one.”

“Please, some of us are trying to eat,” Blackwall groans across from Bull while Sera giggles and swats Bull’s shoulder.

“Yes, do keep that sort of talk to the tavern where it belongs, dear,” Vivienne says from a few seats over. She fixes the Bull with a disapproving frown and an arched eyebrow, laying her silverware carefully on the edges of her plate. 

Bull clears his throat, grin evaporating. “Sorry, ma’am.” 

She nods once, the corners of her lips pinching a little, before she turns back to the Inquisitor. The sprawling array of food seems to have drawn most of the Inner Circle to breakfast, a rare event. Even Solas has been tempted out of the rotunda and sits talking with Cassandra and Varric. Cole perches next to him, knees drawn up to his chin as he idly spins an apple between his hands and listens. Only one chair sits conspicuously empty.

“So, tired him out then or what?” Sera says around another mouthful of potatoes. “I thought sure he’d be the first one pouncing on the pastries.”

“Has he not been by?” the Bull says, looking up from his plate.

“Not seen him since you two snuck off last night,” Sera says. “Weird. He never misses pastries.”

The Bull chews thoughtfully. It only takes a few more bites of ham before Sera’s on to the next thing, launching into one of the tales she loves to tell just to make Blackwall splutter and blush and Vivienne send another displeased frown their way. Bull laughs along as he eats, but his eye wanders again and again to the rotunda door.

At last he reaches forward and wraps a pastry in his napkin, then plucks up another for himself. He bites in, savoring the burst of sweetness and spice warm on his tongue, and smiles as he stands. He nods to Blackwall and ruffles Sera’s hair as he passes.

“Tell him to come up for air now and then, yeah?” Sera calls after him. “He’s no fun stuck in moldy books all day.”

Bull chuckles. “I’ll pass it along.”

He strolls past Solas’s room, sparing a glance for the mural covering nearly the whole circle of the wall. He’s got a good eye, Solas, and Bull can puzzle out the general idea of all the careful shapes and colors. Solas could probably get himself a decent pile of gold doing noble portraits. Trying to picture it almost makes Bull laugh aloud. He takes another bite of his pastry and climbs up the stairs.

Dorian leans over a table placed outside what Bull knows Dorian considers _his_ alcove. He’s got three different tomes spread open before him, his finger trailing quickly across the page of the largest. A quill in his other hand hovers over a piece of parchment. Bull watches his finger pause on the page, then jab at the spot a few times. Dorian nods furiously to himself and scratches a note on the parchment. Then his finger trails down the page once more.

“Unless you’ve brought me a pristine volume of ancient Tevinter genealogy, I’m afraid I’m rather busy,” he says without looking up.

“You ran off pretty early this morning,” Bull says. He smiles around the pastry at the fact that Dorian _leaving_ the Bull’s bed before dawn has become the noteworthy exception, rather than his staying. 

“I had a thought,” Dorian says, scribbling something else on the parchment, “and if I’m right, I believe I may be close to solving the mystery of Corypheus’s lineage.”

“Missed breakfast,” Bull says, curling the hand holding the extra pastry behind his back as he leans against the wall. 

Dorian waves a dismissive hand. “Breakfast, he says. Did you even hear me? I’m on the cusp of uncovering--” Dorian finally looks up, and Bull takes a deliberate bite into the last of his pastry, the crust flaking between his fingers. The quill feather droops in Dorian’s hand. “Is that an apple pastry?”

“Got the last one,” Bull says. He swallows the rest and sucks the sweet remnants from his fingers. Dorian frowns and turns back to his books.

“Wonderful. If you’re quite through tormenting me and getting crumbs all over the floor, some of us have work to do.”

“So you don’t want this?” Bull says. He moves his other hand into view, holding it out as Dorian looks back up sharply. The Bull grins as he adds, “Didn’t say _that_ was the last one.”

Dorian practically throws the quill onto the table. He snatches the pastry and unwraps the napkin, then bites in. His eyes closed, and he moans with delight. Bull feels a little swell of affection tug at his chest. 

“It’s still warm,” Dorian says once he swallows, eyes slowly opening again. He looks up at Bull with flakes of pastry crust clinging to his mustache. Bull chuckles and lifts a thumb to Dorian’s lip, brushing them gently away, careful not to push a single hair out of place. Dorian’s eyes dart down to the Bull’s hand, and then he turns to look around the rotunda. Ah, a misstep. Bull lets his hand fall away, even as his eye follows Dorian’s around the library and finds the only other soul is Helisma, her back to them as she reaches up to shelf an armful of books.

“Sera said to tell you to come up for air once in awhile,” Bull says, taking a step back. He gives Dorian a small smile. “So… don’t work too hard.”

He starts to turn, but a hand wrapping around the strap of his harness stops him. Dorian tugs him back and stretches up on his toes to press a firm, lingering kiss on Bull’s lips. He tastes of cinnamon and sugar.

Bull smiles as Dorian drops back on his heels. The corners of Dorian’s mouth twitch up in answer as he brushes a few stray crumbs from Bull’s harness.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, voice low and full of promise as he looks up at the Bull through his lashes. Bull takes another quick glance around the library, just for Dorian’s benefit, and presses his luck with a brief kiss to Dorian’s forehead.

“Later, then,” he says, winking. The warmth Bull surprised into Dorian’s expression dissolves as he rolls his eyes.

“You realize how ridiculous it looks when you do that, surely,” he says.

“You like it,” Bull says.

“Maker help me,” says Dorian, hiding his smile behind the pastry. The Bull sees it anyway. “Off you go, then, I have work to do. And Bull?”

The Bull pauses as he turns back to the stairs, glancing over his shoulder. Dorian has mostly managed to smother his smile, but the corners of his mouth still betray him. “Thank you.” 

Bull smirks and gives him another wink. Dorian sighs and moves back to the table, pastry in hand. Autumn, the Bull thinks as he lumbers back down the stairs, might rapidly become his favorite season.


End file.
